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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/27479689">what's in a name?</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/VioletThePorama/pseuds/VioletThePorama'>VioletThePorama</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Half-Life</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>An OC from the fic is mentioned, Barney Calhoun is a good guy, Canon-Typical Violence, Fanfictionception and all that, Gen, Gordon Freeman is a socially stunted individual, He was a helpful guy, I just want Johnson to be okay, Imagine splitting the Half-Life and hlvrai tags, Inspired by Fanfiction, Light Angst, Mute Gordon Freeman, alright?</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-11-09</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-11-09</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-06 20:01:37</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>1,170</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/27479689</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/VioletThePorama/pseuds/VioletThePorama</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Humanity clung to Gordon, harder to shake then even blood. As much as he didn't want them to, people had died for him back in Black Mesa. Those who weren’t mowed down by his bullets had tried to help. </p><p>A few had remained, trapped in the depths of the facility. It was easier when there was no name to put to their face. They could blend into the background, could become just another corpse that he had become so desensitized to. </p><p>But that wasn’t always the case. </p><p> </p><p>Aka I obsess over the Resonant Crowbar series by ArdeaWrites and a short fic is the only solution.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Barney Calhoun &amp; Gordon Freeman</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>5</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>36</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>what's in a name?</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><ul class="associations">


        <li>
            Inspired by

            <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/18156932">The Physics of the Crowbar</a> by <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/users/ArdeaWrites/pseuds/ArdeaWrites">ArdeaWrites</a>.
        </li>

    </ul><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Before you read this, is it very much based on The Physics of the Crowbar and probably won't make much sense if you haven't read that. Hope you enjoy.</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>“</span>
  <em>
    <span>Is Johnson alive?” </span>
  </em>
  <span>Freeman asks, when he and Calhoun are left alone in traversing the rebels current base. He makes sure the other man can see his hands before signs the three short, succinct words. The name is carefully fingerspelled. Impersonal and proper.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Curiosity is his driving factor. Thoughts of Black Mesa have been weighing on his mind and asking is the easiest way to clear those particular cobwebs. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He flicks his eyes up to Calhoun's face to watch for a response. The other scrunches up his face slightly. His eyebrows wrinkle and he mouths the name inaudibly.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>His folly is almost immediately revealed. Johnson is a common name, even among the ashes of civilization. Of course Calhoun wouldn’t know of whom he was referring. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>But Freeman can’t get the name out of his head. Fleeting moments of kindness in a warzone. Brief sparks of humanity that managed to force their way through his hazed, concussed mind. Moments that soaked their way into the fibers of his being when he least wanted them. Memories that demanded to be revisited long after their passing, hidden away behind the confusion and addled thoughts that had followed him off the train and into the new world. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Now that he has time to think without having to shove everything away from himself, all of those bubble to the surface.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Johnson, a spy squirreled away in the recesses of a disaster. Someone who had offered him a job far better than the man with the briefcase had. A facility less cutting edge than Black Mesa, but </span>
  <em>
    <span>quiet</span>
  </em>
  <span>. Calm. A nameless guard whose daughter may not have gotten that birthday after all. A woman with a name he could almost recall, associated with the scent of coffee and a blinding, burning light. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>A woman who had doubted him.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He signs “</span>
  <em>
    <span>Black Mesa</span>
  </em>
  <span>” with shaky hands, and chides the biological response. Curses hands that are no longer fully his own. For a brief instance, he wants to claw them open, tear away everything that isn’t him. He draws in a carefully controlled breath instead.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Clarification is all that needs to happen, to see if his wishes were ever met. The thought occurs to him that Calhoun may not have gotten the details of the paper he had scrawled on before jumping into Xen. That his requests were simply something to comfort a dead man walking. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Freeman hates to admit that it had worked, just a bit. The idea that something could come after the horrors of the Resonance Cascade if he just asked for it. A bid for control where there was none. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“</span>
  <em>
    <span>Guard</span>
  </em>
  <span>” is the last descriptor he decides on. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Calhoun’s face lights up with clarity. His eyes dart between Freeman’s hands and his face. His lips twitch down, and the skin between his eyes furrows again. For once, the silence is deafening. The usually talkative man stares at him and says nothing. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Freeman nods in one quick motion. He lowers his hands and asks after nobody else. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I’m sorry Gordon,” Calhoun says after a long stretch. Freeman waits for him to continue. They stand stopped in the middle of the hall. Most of the bases population is located several halls down in the cafeteria, so no one else takes the corridor they are in. It gives Barney enough time to try and stumble his way into the right set of words. “Not a lot of guards made it through Black Mesa. I think I remember a Johnson, but…”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The other man stops talking. Freeman doesn’t nod again, but he wants to yell. Show his anger in a way that </span>
  <em>
    <span>everybody</span>
  </em>
  <span> will understand. </span>
  <em>
    <span>You should remember him</span>
  </em>
  <span>! He thinks harshly. Calhoun was the one who had sent the guards to help him, after all. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Just like there are memories of humanity scattered throughout those three days, there are also horrific tragedies that are particularly distinctive. The give of an elevator button. People falling while his brain frantically estimated how quick their deaths would be. A pain blossoming in his lower back. The sounds of a kid soldier being devoured a room over. Tracking through thick patches of blood that was rarely his own.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>His chest is a bit tight, and he takes a breath to try and soothe it. His mouth is dry, and his throat tastes a bit like blood, and a little like alien guts. There’s nothing there. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Calhoun’s eyes wrinkle when he smiles. Right now, he smiles. But it doesn’t reach the rest of his face. “We should go get some food,” he decides. “Everyone else has already beat us there. I heard they found some fruit preserves, and there won’t be any left if we keep waiting around.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Something makes Freeman follow him, even though he feels as if he will vomit if he eats anything. Somebody passes them, saying something to Calhoun that sounds distant and distorted. He glares at the intruder until they scamper away. Calhoun is talking again, but he can hardly hear the other man over his own thoughts. They spiral further and further down and grow louder still until he can’t even </span>
  <em>
    <span>try</span>
  </em>
  <span> to focus on the rambling. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>His hands twitch for the weight of his missing crowbar, and he stutters in his stride every now and then as they approach corners.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>In the cafeteria, water is handed to him. He can see it poured and watches it the whole way until Calhoun is carefully pressing it into his hands. Then the freedom-fighter backs away, keeping his distance. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He is thankful for it. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The din of the eating area is a bit too much for him. He carefully sips at the water and stands in a corner, where he is given a large berth. He finishes the glass, and it is replaced with another that he drinks from until he feels a little more human. A little more normal, mouthful by mouthful. He always aspired to something more machine than anything else. For the moment, he will take what he can get.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Once he is paying attention again, the man nods at him. “You should go lay down somewhere. I can grab you something later, if you’ll be in the labs.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Freeman can’t help but nod back, movements still a bit jerky. It’s an invitation that he feels too overwhelmed to process any further. He takes off, sequestering himself next to a doorway near the Vortigaunts medical bay. He’s far enough away that he doesn’t impede the traffic of incoming soldiers, but close enough that nobody is wandering there without purpose long enough to bother him. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Later, when most of the lights are off, and only the occasional assigned guard prowls the halls, he goes to one of the labs. It isn’t long before the promise is kept and a plate of food is brought to him. He explains a little bit of what he is working on to Calhoun, who nods in all the right places, and takes over in talking when he shuts off again. </span>
</p>
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